Going For The Goalie

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Claire Rosewell swore off hockey players. Especially since Blake Wolfe. He was her secret. Her downfall. The one thing she never told anyone about. So when she becomes the new physical therapist for the Wildcats, she expects professionalism. Distance. Control. She does not expect him. Now every injury, every treatment room session, every late-night "check-up" forces her back into orbit with the man she was never supposed to touch again. But Blake doesn't look like he regrets her. And Claire is starting to remember exactly why she broke her own rules in the first place. ——— Blake Wolfe didn’t expect her to walk back into his life—especially not like this. From the moment she walked into the training room she acted like she didn’t remember him. But Blake remembered. He remembered too much. Now she was right there again—close enough to talk to, close enough to touch, close enough to make every careful thing he’d built around the past start to crack. And he was determined to things right this time around.

Complete Chapters 45 Rating 4.9 ( 28 reviews ) Age Rating mature {"language":"en","storyId":1746941,"genres":[{"name":"Romance","path":"/genres/romance"}],"authorName":"J. T. Rose","authorPath":"/Jtrosebooks","status":"complete","lastUpdatedAt":1781616331,"chaptersCount":45,"rating":4.892857142857143,"reviewsCount":28,"ageRating":"mature"} Chapter 1: Claire Ten Years Earlier

"Oh my God, my feet hurt," I hear May's shrill voice echo across the ice.

The last of our students file out into the lobby as I shoot my best friend, Emily, a look. We both roll our eyes.

"I'm freezing, and I do not want to teach the next class," May says as she skates toward us.

"Do you ever want to teach the tot class?" I ask, keeping my tone light and sarcastic. I keep a smile on my face, hiding my growing annoyance.

You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but sometimes I think I'd rather slam my head into the boards than listen to her complain for another second.

I push off the wall and skate around the perimeter of the rink to keep warm, Emily trailing beside me.

"It's about fucking time she got that class," Emily whispers. "It's not fair that Allison assigns May all the high-level skaters. I'm tired of taking toepicks to the shin."

Allison—our figure skating director and my coach—does her best to rotate class assignments fairly, but I have a feeling she gives May more sessions with the higher-level skaters just to shut her up.

"I hear you, sister," I snicker as I pick up speed, throwing my arms up for a set of crossover drills. I get that nobody wants to wrangle a bunch of three-year-olds with knives attached to their feet, but sometimes I think May forgets the whole point of being a coach. We were all beginners once. You don't just fall out of the womb knowing how to do a salchow.

I started figure skating "late" for the sport. While most kids started around three or four, I didn't start until I was ten. But once I started, I was hooked. I loved the feeling of gliding across the ice, the chill of the arena, the rush of adrenaline when you landed a jump. This place became my second home. The ice was my happy place.

I always knew I'd never be good enough for the Olympics, but that never stopped me from wanting to improve.

Even now, in college, I still take classes and lessons. When Allison brought up the idea of coaching, I jumped at the chance. There was nothing more rewarding than watching your students grow and succeed. Maybe that's why I never minded teaching the tot class. I wanted to share my love of skating with the next generation.

I exhale as I move through a set of backward crossovers and prepare for my jump. My heart pounds as I step onto my outside edge and launch myself into the air. I've been struggling with the timing of my snap on my double axel, and today proves to be no different. My rotation comes up short, and I don't fully land on my toepick before crashing straight onto my ass.

A chorus of "ooooohs" erupts from the benches.

Heat floods my face as I look up to find the hockey coaches and May watching me. Emily skates over, spraying ice as she stops beside me.

"That looked like it hurt, but I swear you were more rotated than last time," she says, helping me to my feet.

I brush the ice from my leggings as we skate toward the group.

"Shit, Rosie, that looked painful," Jacob says.

"Good thing she's got that fine ass to cushion the fall," Nick chimes in beside him.

"For the thousandth time, my last name is Rosewell, Jacob. And"—I flip Nick off—"you're disgusting."

"Lighten up, Rosie." Nick rolls his eyes. "I'm a hockey player. It's in our DNA to admire a woman's ass. Right, fellas?"

He looks toward the other two guys for backup.

I shoot Jacob a glare, but he only smiles sheepishly back at me. I avoid looking at the third member of their trio altogether.

"Your DNA is probably closer to that of a dog than a human," Emily cuts in.

"Well, this dog is willing to throw you a bone and give you a little of my DNA anytime, sweet thing," Nick drawls.

Emily visibly shudders. "Did you get checked too many times during your last game? I'm not a puck bunny, and your 'DNA'," she air quotes, "is probably loaded with chlamydia."

"Suit yourself," Nick says with a wink as he grabs a stack of cones to divide the ice into sections.

Allison and the hockey director, Scott, thought it would be a good idea to have the hockey and figure skating coaches teach the basic skills program together. Most of the kids who tried to jump straight into hockey barely knew how to skate, so the program helped them learn fundamentals while also convincing hockey parents their kids weren't "wasting time twirling around" with the figure skating coaches.

I watch as May, Emily, and Jacob prepare their sections for class, flipping through the lesson plan on my clipboard.

"That was a hard fall. You might be sore later. I can take care of that for you if you want."

Familiar warmth blooms low in my stomach as Blake's deep voice brushes against my ear.

"Wolfe," I warn quietly, glancing toward the lobby where our students are starting to line up outside the doors, "we're about to start class."

"Meet me at our spot after work?"

I finally look up and meet his eyes.

My brain knows I should say no, but my body betrays me anyway when I give him a slight nod.

The guys on the Clover hockey team are known for being womanizing douchebags, and Blake Cameron Wolfe is no exception. Growing up at this rink and witnessing their behavior firsthand made me swear off hockey players completely.

But what started as an innocent ride to Jacob's party after work somehow ended with me in the back of Blake’s car...and Blake between my legs.

Since that party a month ago, we've been hooking up in secret. Not even Emily knows, and I plan to keep it that way. I'd had sex before, but there was something dangerously addictive about sneaking around with him.

It also helped that Blake absolutely lived up to his reputation.

An hour and a half later, we're tangled together in the backseat of Blake’s car.

His rough hands skim up my back, unclasping my bra as I straddle him. I trace the hard planes of his chest before dragging my tongue along the muscles of his neck, sucking lightly at his skin.

I moan when he captures one of my chest in his mouth.

He lifts his head just enough to look me in the eyes while his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud again. My head falls back as my hips instinctively roll against the hard bulge beneath his jeans.

"Open your eyes and look at me, Claire."

His fingers tangle into my hair, tugging lightly until my gaze locks with his.

"I want..." My voice shakes as he lifts his hips and grinds his denim-clad erection against my soaked center. "I want you inside me."

I'm still not used to how vocal he likes to be during sex.

The praise sends heat spiraling through me as he shifts beneath me to unbutton his jeans and shove them down enough to free himself. My pulse races at the familiar sound of foil tearing open.

My breath catches as he slowly lowers me onto him. Inch by glorious inch. Until he's buried completely inside me.

We've done this enough times that it shouldn't affect me this much anymore, but it still does. I still feel overwhelmed by him. By the way he stretches me, fills me, consumes every coherent thought in my head the second we touch.

I try to move my hips, desperate for friction, but his hands tighten on my waist, holding me still. I whine in frustration and attempt to grind against him again.

"That's not teasing, baby," he murmurs as he slowly pulls almost all the way out before pushing just the tip back in. "This is."

"Please, Blake," I beg, my voice rough and desperate.

His eyes darken with amusement.

"Fuck me," I breathe. "Please fuck me."

He slams back into me so hard my vision blurs.

"Same time next week?" Blake asks as we pull our clothes back on.

"You're so full of yourself," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

"You say that now." Blake as he leans back against the seat, completely unbothered. Like he didn't just ruin me for every other man on the planet.

I shove his shoulder lightly while fixing my ponytail in the rearview mirror. My lips are swollen, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, and a bruise is already blooming near the base of my neck.

"Allison's going to kill me if she sees this tomorrow," I mutter, rubbing at the mark.

Wolfe's eyes darken with satisfaction instead of guilt. "Looks good on you."

"And yet you keep crawling into my backseat."

I grab my skate bag from the floorboard and push open the car door before he can see the smile threatening to break across my face. Cold air immediately hits my flushed skin, grounding me.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, the rink lights glowing against the dark sky. Blake climbs out after me, tugging his hoodie back over his head.

"You know," he says casually, "normal people usually text after hooking up."

I snort. "Normal people don't sneak around like they're conducting some undercover operation."

Fun , right, that's all this is supposed to be.

No feelings. No complications. Just stolen moments between classes and late nights in parking lots.

I've seen what happens when girls fall for hockey players—especially Clover hockey players. Tears. Cheating scandals. Girls crying in the rink lobby during tournaments.

Wolfe suddenly reaches for me, his fingers hooking around my wrist before I can walk away. The teasing expression slips slightly from his face.

The question catches me off guard.

Not because he asked it, but because he sounds like he actually means it.

His thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist once, sending warmth spiraling through my stomach all over again.

God, I hate when he says my name like that. Soft. Low. Dangerous.

I force myself to step back. "I should go."

For a second, he looks like he wants to say something else. Instead, he gives a single nod.

I bite back a smile. "You really are full of yourself."

I shake my head and start walking backward toward my car.

But even once I'm safely inside my car, even after I start the engine and pull out of the lot, I can still feel him everywhere. His hands on my hips. His mouth on my skin. The way he looks at me like I’m something worth paying attention to.

And that's the truly dangerous part, not the sex, not the sneaking around. It's the fact that, for the first time in my life, Blake Wolfe makes me forget every rule I swore I'd never break.

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The satisfying sound of a puck hitting my glove sends a rush straight to my chest.

"Damn, I'm still shooting too wide," Declan Dewey, our starting center, says as he circles around the net.

I straighten and pull my facemask off, shaking my hair and sending droplets of sweat flying in all directions. My back muscles ache from being hunched over for hours.

We're still a couple of weeks out from the start of the season, but Coach McNamara has been on our asses during practice. Last year, our team went all the way to the playoff finals but came up short right at the end. One mistake on my part and we lost by a single goal to the Florida Panthers.

I should've anticipated the shot.

Should've read the play better.

That goal still wakes me up some nights.

I've been the starting goalie for the Wildcats for the last five years, but in this sport, everyone is replaceable. There are no sacred cows. Our backup goalie, Gavin McGuire, has been gunning for my spot since he joined the team last year, and every bad save, every ache in my back, every moment I lose focus is another reason for management to start looking at him instead of me.

After I graduated college, I earned a spot on the Wildcats' farm team and spent years clawing my way up to the big leagues. I didn't work this hard just to lose everything now.

"Ready?" Chelsea, our team physical therapist, asks as she places the electrode pads against my lower back.

I nod, and a second later the familiar tingling sensation spreads across my skin.

"I talked to Matt," she says, adjusting the settings, "and we both think it's time to change your strengthening program since your back pain's flaring up again."

"Great," I mutter. "Love that for me."

The Wildcats' sports medicine staff is elite. Best therapists, trainers, massage therapists—anything we need, the organization provides. Most teams would kill for this setup.

"Oh!" Chelsea jerks suddenly, bracing herself against the wall.

"You okay?" I start to push myself upright, concern immediately replacing my sarcasm.

Her hand lands firm on my shoulder. Forcing me to stay lying on the table.

"It's fine," she says through a breath. "Archie just discovered my rib cage again."

Her hand rubs absentmindedly over her stomach.

I'm pretty sure women hate hearing words like huge or enormous while pregnant, but Chelsea is eight months along and carrying what looks like a future linebacker, so the description fits.

Chelsea Kruger has been with the Wildcats longer than half the coaching staff. She's gorgeous in a way that makes absolutely no sense for someone who spends her days yelling at injured hockey players. Even now, pushing forty shes all long blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, legs for days. But it's her personality that keeps everyone in line.

Chelsea doesn't tolerate bullshit and every rookie learns that fast.

Two years ago, Bernie got a little too comfortable during treatment and tried putting his hands where they didn't belong. Jonesy broke it up before Chelsea could kill him herself. Bernie still has a scar on his chin from where Jonesy clocked him.

Since then, nobody's been stupid enough to test boundaries again. We all worry about her as well. Because of her age, her pregnancy is considered high risk which puts all the guys on edge whenever she makes any sort of sound.

"You good, Mama Chels?" Dewey calls from the ice bath across the room.

"Yes," she says dryly. "My little bundle of joy is trying to escape through my ribs."

I lift my head enough to point toward her stomach.

The current in my lower back intensifies, pulling a groan from my throat.

The training room door swings open moments later, and laughter fills the space as Kowalski, Nikolai, and Ivan wander in.

" Da, da, da, devochka byla zhivotnym ," Nikolai says with a grin as he fist-bumps Ivan.

"C'mon, guys. English," Kowalski complains.

" Nyet ," Ivan replies in his thick accent. "Maybe you learn Russian instead."

"Nyet," Kowalski mocks dramatically. "We are not in Mother Russia, comrade."

Ivan barks out a laugh while he and Nikolai head toward the sauna, still muttering in Russian.

"How's the shoulder?" Chelsea asks Kowalski as he rotates his arm overhead.

"I'll stretch it once I finish with Wolfe."

Kowalski hesitates. "You sure? You look exhausted. Maybe you should take a break and sit down."

Chelsea narrows her eyes at him.

"Plus," she continues, "you idiots are going to miss me when I'm gone."

I've been so wrapped up in practice and my own shit that I almost forgot Chelsea's maternity leave starts soon.

"Why do you even have to leave?" I ask as she peels the electrodes off my back. "Just bring Archie to the rink."

She rolls her eyes while I sit up and drag my shirt over my head.

"I'm sure Coach McNamara would love a screaming newborn distracting you all season."

"What are we supposed to do without you?" Kowalski asks dramatically as he flops onto the treatment table beside me. Pushing me out of my spot so he can lay down on his side.

"First of all, stop being dramatic."

"Second, I'm leaving you in capable hands. The new PT came highly recommended by one of my colleagues, and I trust his judgment. He assured me that she's one of the best." Chelsea takes Kowalski's arm and starts stretching it above his head.

"She?" Kowalski asks immediately, his expression turning wolfish.

Chelsea drops his arm and plants her hands on her hips.

Every guy in the room suddenly looks a little too interested and Chelsea notices.

"And before any of you idiots start acting up," she says sharply, "you will treat her with the same respect you give me. If I hear otherwise, I'll come back here with a baby strapped to my chest just to kick your asses personally."

Nobody in the room doubts she would.

Dewey walks over wrapped in a towel, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I'll keep these hooligans under control, Mama Chels."

"I know you will," she says fondly as she pinches his cheek before looking back at Kowalski. "Jordan from HR said she'd stop by sometime today to show her around.

As if on cue, the training room door swings open again.

Jordan steps inside first and our eyes meet briefly, a blush creeps across her cheeks.

I'm very acquainted with Jordan from HR.

I fight a smirk as memories of how we reacquainted ourselves last week in the supply closet flash through my head. My body starts reacting immediately, but the moment dies fast when I notice the woman standing behind her.

The room around me fades into background noise as I stare at her.

The girl I've spent the last ten years trying not to think about. Except, that's not a girl standing in front of me, but a full grown woman.

The woman that haunts not only my nightmares but my dreams.

She looks different than she did at eighteen. Softer in some places and curvier in others. Back then she'd been all delicate edges and nervous smiles, like touching her too hard might break her.

Now? Now she looks confident—dangerously confident. Dark jeans cling to her wide hips, and her fitted long-sleeve shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the swell of her breasts. Her brown hair falls past her shoulders, and those big eyes sweep across the room before finally landing on me.

And just like that, I'm eighteen again. My chest tightens and my pulse spikes.

The last I heard, Claire moved to Colorado after graduation and got engaged to some guy. I figured the next time I saw her would be at Jacob and Emily's wedding.

Turns out, Claire and I weren't the only ones fucking around at the rink. Unlike us though, Emily and Jacob's relationship didn't end up with him being blocked on all forms of social media.

I shake my head, convinced that I'm imagining things. But that only makes me dizzy as I realize I am in fact not imagining things. The minute our eyes lock a tingle runs down my spine and I think I might still be connected to the TENS unit.

Sneaking around the rink...her laugh echoing...down empty hallways...her fingers tangled in my hoodie strings...her lips...

My gaze drops to her mouth before I can stop myself, and suddenly I remember exactly how they used to feel wrapped around my—

Now is not the time for a trip down sexy memory lane. What the fuck is she doing here?

Then Jordan smiles brightly and gestures toward Claire.

"This is Claire Rosewell," she announces. "Your new physical therapist."

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Readers can read all books for free, without any ads and give the authors feedback.

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